


The Taste

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Corvo, Dishonored - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>more thanks to urdnotkassa for the glorious art that brings me all the smutty feelings. <3</p></blockquote>





	The Taste

The list goes on, more in his mind than out loud, though there is enough of that, too, and Corvo must conjure a sensation for everything he’s consumed in the past few hours: the tang of fruit, bubbles in the cider, the crisp skin of some beast bigger than the table on which it ended its sorry life.

He finds it to be a surprisingly meditative exercise, though that’s not the reason he’s compelled to do it.  His guest leans against the wall opposite the bed, a shadow sucking away the lamplight.

“After the eels?”

“Apricot tarts,” Corvo mumbles, arm thrown over his eyes. 

“What else?”

“Some grapes, I don’t know.”

What of the taste? What of the sounds? Detail for this tireless creature every paper frill, and the reek of honeydust to mask decay from the baseboards to the shingles.  The party inquisition will continue, he knows, until his voice gives out or his mind shutters from exhaustion, and not before.

No one will ever appreciate this fact of the supernatural the way Corvo does: Hold a god in fascination and you will never be left alone.

Under his arm, Corvo peeks at the Outsider, whose fathomless eyes wait for more.

“And?”

He’s been wicked after all, and there will be no rest.

Under the bed, stashed beneath his coat and the clothes he’s shed, lies the plain flask he’d managed to ferret back here, unbroken.  Dunwall’s finest, even now. With the tip of his thumb, Corvo works the stopper out, padding over his bare floor to offer the bottle to his guest. The only companion in the building who doesn’t gawp at manners, even while they’re practiced by a naked assassin.

“Taste for yourself,” he says. 

But the Outsider’s arms stay crossed, firm over his fine coat, and Corvo shrugs, tipping the contents into his own mouth.  Holding it for the time it takes to reach around the narrow hips, place the bottle on the windowsill, and pass the scorch of liquor from one set of lips to another. Quick, with a hand curled around his neck to keep him still, hold him hard where the pitch black hair creeps over his fingers. The Outsider’s mouth yields to the flood, heedless of what escapes to trickle down his chin, and Corvo crushes him against the wall to chase it down, lick it back, and make the kiss whole. 

He’s tired of retracing these minor memories, tired of the new ones he’s asked to make.  If it’s some uniquely human sensation the Outsider craves, then let him have it first-hand.  Corvo sucks on the tongue his mouth, pushing for the kneading grip on his ass. 

_No one ever learned to dance by watching_ , she’d said.  He had agreed in theory, at the time. 

Now it’s a test.  It’s the heel of his free hand rubbing at the thick ridge inside a pair of grey trousers, and the kiss-raw taste of saliva and booze.  It’s how hard he can be, jutting, hips locked forward.

“Exquisite,” says the Outsider, panting.

“It’s only whiskey.”  Corvo smiles, holding his face, thumb tracking the Outsider’s angles, catching on the lower swell of his lip.

“Not to you,” he replies, sucking the digit thoughtfully, drawing blunt teeth over Corvo’s callus.  And there are thoughts, tucked well away from the carnal forefront where they can be used, ones that creak like a schooner’s hold and smell like bitterleaf-stained knuckles.  The Outsider tips his head, releasing Corvo’s thumb with a slick pop.  “There’s an ache at the bottom of this bottle.”

That, he wants to say, is true of most spirits. 

On his knees, fingers plucking the damp breeches open under a pair of glittering eyes, Corvo makes the question of the whiskey fly away altogether.  He hears the Outsider’s head knock back against the wall.  Learn by doing what needs to be done.  

Elixir tastes like pipe ash and pepper.

Remedy tastes like frostroot and mineral.

The Outsider tastes like nothing he knows, breath and sweat heating up the wool beneath his chin where it bumps again and again.  Does he come like any man?  Dark salt and a shudder in the lower belly?

So here’s where they both gain a little first-hand knowledge.  Which is the only power no one can truly see, not like a brand or a blade or a title.  He slides his tongue under the ridge, finds the vein, and doesn’t close his eyes. 

There’s clues to be found in the shape of a thing he knows by heart, stretched tight over so much he doesn’t. Here in the sticky drag of his palm, here there is enough knowledge to fill a thousand libraries, to fill his mouth and then some. 

“My dear Corvo,” the Outsider bites off his name as a groan, graveled vowels tumbling through the dark bit of shadow they share, down to the tightening fingers in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> more thanks to urdnotkassa for the glorious art that brings me all the smutty feelings. <3


End file.
